We All Go A Little Mad Sometimes
by leilahali
Summary: AU: Felicity Smoak killed a man, and she can't remember the treacherous act at all. Now, in Aglion Asylum, snippets of the violent night plague her nightmares, while voices whisper to her in her mind. When Oliver Queen, a world renowned psychiatrist, tries to help, she begins to remember. But will remembering be enough to save her from an entire life of lies and incarceration?
1. Chapter 1

"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."

― Edgar Allan Poe

**We All Go A Little Mad Sometimes**

**By Leilah Ali**

The institution was a flurry of activity, all of which went on outside the steel door. To her it was always The Door, because it separated her, from them. She sat on the edge of her hard pallet of a bed, staring at The Door for hours on end. A little slot hole near the bottom opened up at intervals of six hours, three times a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner. Sleep, stare, eat, sleep, stare, eat. Listen, listen, listen, listen, listen, _listen._

Monotony at its finest.

You hear many things outside the door. Screams that echo throughout hallways, derisive laughter, even singing at times—horrible, terrible, tragic songs. Songs about nothing, sometimes they are just muttered chants of random words. One that stuck with her was the inmate to her right just stating "walls, walls, walls", over and over again for hours on end. She looked to the simple gray walls of her cell. If you stared long enough the walls began to blur and dance in your vision. Walls, indeed.

The walls are thin here. Acoustics too good. Perhaps they did this on purpose, so that the insanity seeped in slower, letting more darkness in every time a person screamed.

The worst sound, Felicity thought, was that of footsteps coming down the hall outside her room. Footsteps were the worst; they sent jolts of fear through her heart, slivers of hope into her brain, and apprehension tingling through her fingertips. Footsteps were her enemy. They reminded her of things past.

_"Now be a good girl Felicity..." _The words whispered to her in her mind, wrapping a cold hand around her heart and squeezing squeezing until it hurt. Felicity brushed away the thoughts. "No no no no no not now not now."

So when she heard the tell-tale taps of someone's shoes on the floor, she turned away from The Door, trying to block out that fear and hope and apprehension. Fear of the silent jeers from the nurses, the silent whispers of _murderer, she's a murderer. _Hope for release, always hoping for an out. And apprehension, because who are they coming for next?

Felicity counted the steps the person took.

_ 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21_

The steps stopped outside The Door.

The click of a lock opening, then, The Door opened with a screech.

* * *

><p>He stepped inside carefully, leather briefcase the first thing through the door. He was immaculately dressed in a gray suit, face cleaned of emotion, an expression he had perfected over the years. He let his blue eyes rove over the patient before him, observing the way she sat (facing away from him) and the strait jacket that bound her arms behind her back.<p>

Oliver waited for the nurse to bring him a chair, and when she did, he immediately sat down, opening his briefcase and taking out the yellow-paged notebook and his favorite pen.

He wrote "Felicity Smoak 9/2/2014" at the top of the page and then put his pen down. Oliver waited. He always had his patients make the first move, to see how they would react to his presence. So Oliver waited.

Being a renowned psychiatrist had its perks sure—personal driver, nice pay, etc—but lately he had been receiving cases of patients who weren't the even least bit interesting. They were movie stars who thought they were bipolar, or general and easily diagnosed cases of schizophrenia; Oliver was the miracle worker, the man that didn't fail, he had famously diagnosed several patients before who everyone else had deemed losses. His methods worked.

So when he had read that a 23 year old girl with no history of mental illness, nor any previous clues to an aggressive attitude/demeanor suddenly up and kills a grown man for no apparent reason, Oliver Queen was definitely intrigued. He had even made Diggle come here immediately, a detour from their original destination.

The last doctor who had seen her had written "highly volatile, extremely confrontational. Nurses report her apparently hallucinating at random, screams in her sleep. Tried to cut herself on several occasions, now permanently bound with strait jacket. No sign of cause for erratic behavior".

She still wasn't turning around._ Perhaps a stimulus will elicit a response. _He began to tap his pen on the notepad.

_tap_

_tap_

_tap_

_tap_

_tap_

_tap tap_

_tap _

_tap_

_tap_

Bingo. A snarl erupted from the petite female as she whirled around to face him, teeth bared in a feral expression. "Stop," she hisses. Oliver cannot help that his mouth has fallen open.

She's beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful, and it is completely unexpected. Her skin is pale, sickly looking from lack of sunlight, but her eyes are bright and her skin smooth and there's a liveliness in her pink lips. He is thrown off guard.

But only for a moment. He gathers his thoughts, and writes down her first response to him, "Snarled 'stop'", and then he looks at her.

"Hello, Felicity, my name's Oliver Queen. I am your new psychiatrist. I'm just here to introduce myself, ask some questions… get to know you better." He flashes his million dollar grin, the smile that let patients know that they could trust him. It does nothing to her. Her face closes off, a blank expression in place as she carefully studies him—studies him up and down.

_She's calculating._

It seemed like she was gauging him, his strength, his intelligence, all in one look.

Oliver cleared his throat. "Okay." He pulls a voice recorder from his pocket and presses play. "Oliver Queen, September second, two-thousand and fourteen. Case of Felicity Meghan Smoak. Miss Smoak, how old are you? I'm just going to ask some simple questions at first."

Felicity looked ready to rip someone's head off. "If you already know," she asked, "why ask?"

"Just want to get to know you."

She laughs, a manic lilting laugh that echoes around the small room. She keeps laughing like he had said the funniest thing in the world.

"What's so funny Felicity?"

She stops laughing abruptly turning her eyes directly on him. "Because." She cracks her neck. "I'm not a fun person to know."

"Well, perhaps I'd like to know."

She scoots closer on her cot towards him, so he could smell the antiseptic and soap smell from her.

"27, Oliver Queen."

He writes it down, even thought he already knew her age. Felicity had begun to rock, back and forth in her chair, whistling softly some jaunty tune.

"Why are you here, Felicity?" he asks next.

She goes still. Whispers, "Get this off me first."

"What?" Oliver asks, her voice too low for him to hear.

"Get. This. Off. OF. ME!" She screams, lunging herself at him, the strait jacket causing her to fall to the ground. Felicity began to writhe, crying and screaming on the floor. "Get it off get it off get it off GET IT OFF GET IT OFF."

Two stern-looking nurses come in, administering a shot in her arm. She calms down immediately. No worries, he had gotten enough from her for now."

Session over apparently.

Oliver stood and walked out of the room, going up to the head of staff. "I'll be back next week. Make sure the strait jacket is off."

The head of staff just nodded.

Oliver exited the institution, pondering what he had just witnessed. He couldn't get the image of her eyes out of his head. They looked so innocent, naive, pure. How could this one girl have murdered another human being out of nowhere? What was the cause? Did she have a reason? She had never told the police anything, and other psychiatrists had gotten nothing out of her.

She was a challenge, a strange and difficult mystery, one that Oliver Queen intended to solve.


	2. Chapter 2

"_if i believe_

_in death be sure__  
><em>_of this__  
><em>_it is__"_

-E.E. Cummings

Oliver Queen sat by himself at a table in the local cafe he frequented, a cup of coffee steaming near him. He took a scalding sip, burning his tongue before he returned to the file before him.

The case of Felicity Smoak irked him, no, intrigued him. He had been flipping through the various newspaper clippings about her, about the person she had murdered.

_"38 year old Slade Wilson found dead in apartment late last night, brutally stabbed to death"_

_ "Young woman mauls and kills grown man for no apparent reason, labelled mentally unsound"_

The clippings related little else—that Felicity was taken into custody, screaming about dirty dishes and calling for her mother. That the blood of Mr. Wilson was smeared across her face like war paint when they found her. The picture placed in the papers of her were so uncannily dissimilar to the story about her. It was a picture from MIT, of her grinning and holding up a diploma. How could this smiling girl with the bright eyes kill someone in cold blood?

Nothing made sense. He ran a hand through his hair.

He would have to go visit her again tomorrow; Oliver needed to know more.

* * *

><p>"I want patient Felicity Smoak's strait jacket removed immediately," he said to the surly chief manning her ward.<p>

"Sir, are you aware of her condition? That she has been labelled unstable and violent? The strait jacket is for her own good," the thick-set woman replied.

"I am quite aware of her condition, but, it is imperative that the patient be as comfortable as possible when I question her. She is a human being, ma'am, and should be treated as such." Oliver fixed her with the glare that usually got him most things. It was forged in ice and he knew just how cold his eyes looked when he was adamant about things. He could see the chief weakening, then, finally.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>Felicity had taken to counting the cracks on the wall opposite her bed. There really wasn't much to do to pass time. She had gotten to 1,439 cracks, including the little veins extending from the main fissures, when the Door opened. She turned her head towards the visitor, surprised and disgruntled to see the man from earlier in the week here again.<p>

_The psychiatrist. Oliver Queen. _A sneer curled her lips.

"What's that look for?" the man asked.

She wiped the sneer quickly off her face, schooling her features into a smooth and amiable expression. "What look?" she asked innocently. Oh she knew how to play this game.

Oliver just sat down in the chair provided for him, and took out the yellow notepad from the other day. He wrote something quickly on it then set his pen down and looked at her. His fingers met in a peak under his chin as he surveyed. His eyes were very very blue, like ice. It made her feel distinctly revealed, like her skin was peeled away from her body, leaving only the tendons and muscles beneath. Perhaps that was a strange image to have in her head right now.

The Door opened again to her chagrin. She hated the Door. The heavy chief entered, eyes locked furiously on Felicity. _If looks could kill._ Her name was Ms. Dora, but the patients of Aglion Asylum always called her Ma'am. Like Ma'am deserved the title. She was anything but ladylike, always yelling at the patients, laughing cruelly at their screams when she locked up at night. Felicity hated her. Felicity hated a lot of things here.

Ma'am, however, did something semi-pleasant. She unbuckled the straps that laced Felicity's strait-jacket. It loosened, then, all of it came free. Ma'am left with the jacket folded on her arm, a look of pure disgust on her face.

Felicity unfurled her arms slowly, basking in the glory of being able to fully extend them. She couldn't help the exhilarated laugh that left her lips as she wiggled her fingers. She sighed in contentment, stretching her arms to the sky. Then, with a tiny gasp, she realized she was still being watched by Mr. Queen. She snapped her arms back in place, letting them clutch the sheets of her bed beneath her. The psychiatrist was just staring at her, eyes inscrutable after her child-like display. She shouldn't have shown any weakness. So she clamped her lips together tight and waited for him to speak.

He took his time, writing things down. The scratch of the pen grated on her nerves.

"Now, Felicity, I'm going to ask you a few questions since last time we didn't get too far with that," he said with a smile, "and I am hoping that maybe you'll answer this time." He watched for her reaction, but when she gave none, he cleared his throat. "Okay. Well it says here, that you went to MIT and graduated with top accolades, is that correct?"

Felicity nodded, seeing no harm in answering.

"And, you then went to work at Palmer Industries as an IT girl?"

She nodded again.

"What was that like for you? Was it enjoyable? Was Ray Palmer a kind employer?"

It took her a moment to answer, her work at Palmer Industries seemed like a lifetime ago, an entirely different life, an entirely different girl. "The work was easy, mostly a lot of busywork, messing with codes and such. I liked it. It was—it was my passion. I love computers. Mr. Palmer, Mr. Palmer—" she paused. Ray, _oh Ray._ It sent a pang of pain through her at the mention of his name, then fury.

She must've winced because Mr. Queen soldiered on with his questions, "Yes Felicity? Mr. Palmer what? Was he, in any way, cruel to you?"

These psychiatrists and their stupid questions. What did he hope to find, answers? _Ha, _she thought wryly. _Like he'd find anything. _

"We dated, for a little bit, Mr. Palmer and I."

Oliver seemed surprised by the information. He rifled through his papers a bit."Oh. I have no records of that, how strange. Was that before the accident?"

"What a stupid question to ask _psychiatrist_," she taunted with a sneer, "Of course it was _before_, who could date an insane woman _after_ she murdered someone?" Felicity laughed mirthlessly.

"Well, Ms. Smoak, you would be surprised—ever watch Batman? Harley dated the Joker," Oliver grinned at her.

The grin upended her, so she just looked at him with confusion. _What a strange sense of humor. _

The grin wilted a bit, so he glanced at his paper and back at her curiously. "Has he come to visit you… Mr. Palmer?"

"Once," she answered curtly. When she had first been admitted to the institution.

"And what did he say?"

She breathed in deeply, "That he wouldn't be visiting ever again." Her hands were tightly clasped together in a fist on her lap, fingers white as she tightened them further. She didn't want to remember, couldn't remember. A shadow danced in the corner of her vision. _Not now, _she thought desperately. She wanted to seem as sane as possible, he couldn't come now.

The shadow crossed in front of her. She closed her eyes. _No, no, no. _

"_Did you think death would keep me away from you?_" he whispered in her ear, raspy voice sending chills down her spine.

"Felicity?" She could hear Oliver's voice distantly, as if she were at the end of a very long tunnel and he was at the other end.

A harsh laugh echoed around her. _"Open your eyes pathetic girl. Look at me."_

"No," she replied.

"_LOOK AT ME." _Right in her ear.

"NO!" She began to scream. The voices, they kept talking to her, goosebumps on her arms, her newly freed arms, oh they would surely tie her up again. It wasn't her fault, not her fault. _Not my fault. _

A light pressure on her hand. She opened her eyes, tears staining her cheeks. Somehow she was on the floor, hands clamped tightly over her ears. She looked at the wall. 1,439 cracks. She looked at her left hand, enclosed in one of the psychiatrist's. He was kneeling beside her, eyes filled with concern. His touch was gentle, his palm calloused. He was whispering her name. "Felicity. Are you alright?"

Her blue eyes were wide with fear. She withdrew her hand from his sharply. "Yes. I want you to leave now."

The man shook his head a little and stood, picking up his briefcase and striding to the door.

Felicity sat on the floor and burst into tears.

* * *

><p>"May I speak to Mr. Ray Palmer?" Oliver asked the petite woman manning the ostentatious front desk of Palmer Industries.<p>

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the woman, her perfectly combed eyebrows rising pretentiously. He hated women who acted like this, snobby, entitled. He did his best to keep his irritation in check.

"No, but please, this is important. Tell him Oliver Queen is here, and he has questions about a certain employee here that he was tied to."

At the mention of his name, the woman perked up, appraising him more fully. "Right away Mr. Queen." She picked up a phone next to her, quickly pressing a couple numbers and waiting. Then, a few short words. She nodded and hung up. "This way Mr. Queen." She smiled and led him to an elevator to the right of her desk. Her heels clicked against the sleek marble floor. "Go right up to the fortieth floor and turn left, Mr. Palmer will be waiting for you." She eyed him up and down once more as Oliver stepped into the elevator and closed the door.

Annoyingly tropical music floated through the speakers as he zoomed up to the fortieth floor.

_"If you like pina-coladas, and getting caught in the rain…"_

The elevator stopped; the doors opened and he exited, the music following him out onto the floor.

_"If you like making love at midnight!"_

Mr. Queen turned left, following the brightly lit hallway that opened up into a very sparkly decorated office. It was modern, sheek, everything either white or black. The floor—black marble—the sofas and chairs—white leather. A man leaned against the glass desk dressed in a finely fitted black suit. When he saw Oliver, he strode forward, hand extended for a handshake.

"Ray Palmer." His handshake was firm. Everything about the man looked put together, from the white smile bedecking his face, to the perfectly quaffed hair. However, dark shadows lined the bottom of his eyes.

"Oliver Queen."

"I know, I follow your cases, quite impressive if I must say." Ray gestured to the chairs before his desk. "Please, sit." Oliver followed suit.

"Now, what can I do for you Mr. Queen. Care for a drink?" He grinned, turning towards a table behind him holding scotch and whiskey.

"Actually no thank you, I'm here because of Felicity Smoak."

The other man paused in his movements. "Felicity Smoak?"

Oliver smoothed the front of his suit. "Yes. I am currently studying Ms. Smoak and I saw that she had worked here in the past. She informed me that you two were linked for some time. I just hoped to ask a couple questions about that, garner more information about your former employee."

Mr. Palmer sat down at his desk, setting the glass containing scotch on his desk. He looked visibly paler than before. "Felicity Smoak was a model employee, brilliant in her field, and a—a stalker."

Oliver straightened. "Stalker? Ms. Smoak told me that the two of you were dating for some time."

Ray shook his head in disbelief. "No no. Ms. Smoak deluded herself into thinking I had feelings for her. She used to follow me home. I told her several times, quite adamantly, that if she didn't cease her actions, she would be fired. And now, well, I didn't know how deep the the damage really went, now she's at an asylum for murdering someone." This entire speech was done looking at his scotch glass.

Oliver's brow furrowed. "That's really all I wanted to ask then Mr. Palmer."

Palmer looked up, a smile stretching his face tight. "That's all? I'd love to chat longer but I really must get back to work. Thank you for stopping by." And he promptly dismissed him.

Oliver stood and began to walk towards the hallway leading back to the elevator. He paused, and whirled around. "Mr. Palmer," he called.

The other man turned around. "Yes, Mr. Queen?"

"Did you ever—visit Ms. Smoak in the institution ever since her admittance?"

Ray Palmer looked at Oliver Queen with a completely blank look on his face. He answered, too calmly, "No, I have not."

Oliver nodded, "Thank you," and left.

Later that night, Oliver looked back at all of Felicity Smoak's visitors ever since her admittance to Aglion Asylum last October. The list was short, only containing a couple names, and right at the top…

_Ray Palmer._

It seemed Mr. Palmer was a liar.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"_Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible."_

_-T.E. Lawrence_

There is a collective room in Aglion Asylum where all the crazies come out to play. It's bedecked with childproof chairs and circular tables and lots of games to bolster amiable companionship—but everyone knows the game room is more for show than anything else. _Oh look how humane we are, we let them play games!_ You can hear the derisive laughter echoing from the idiocy of it. _Monopoly and checkers and chess, even music to pass the time!_ How wonderful.

Felicity hadn't been allowed in the game room for quite some time, her solitary confinement preventing her from leaving her room, let alone moving her arms (stupid strait jacket). Thanks to Mr. Queen she was now a free woman, well as free as anyone could be when locked in an institution.

She let her thoughts linger on the psychiatrist for a moment as she traversed down the long hallway towards the game room. She pictured his eyes, the inquisitive look in them when she spoke, and how quickly they turned to concern when she started hearing the voices—more like _his _voice—she shook those memories away. Now was not the time for a breakdown, besides, she disliked concern. It made her feel weak, and she was not weak.

She pushed opened the wooden door with a heady sigh wondering how her fellow cellmates would react to her reappearance. The door opened into a brightly lit room, Felicity shielded her eyes, natural lighting was something to get used to. Windows covered the back wall looking out into a empty field surrounded by a fence. Bars blocked the windows in case anyone decided to have any funny ideas. Something folky and light played on an ancient record player. _I could use that to hit someone if they annoyed, records hurt like a bitch._

There was a deliberate hush when she entered the room, and once her eyes were accustomed to the light, she saw the occupants. About twenty or so people milled around, most sitting in chairs around tables playing or pretending to play a game with someone else. One brittle-looking female stood in a corner of the room muttering to herself. A dark-skinned man with a shaven head nearest to her seemed to be fascinated with his fingers, sitting on the floor and gazing at them with rapture. Everyone else was staring at her, paused in their movements.

_I don't belong here._

Then another thought, unbidden, _yes you do. You killed someone and you don't even remember why. _

Why was indeed a good question. She couldn't even remember the night she killed Slade Wilson, let alone stabbing him a numerous amount of times. If someone had asked her two years ago if she could kill someone, she would've immediately replied no. Murder was a capital offense, the worst of all evils, a black mark on untainted hearts. But now, she didn't know what she was capable of.

Felicity had given up long ago on trying to remember that night, long ago given up on her past self, long ago given up on anyone coming to save her free her from this place.

She sat at an empty table, staring resolutely at a box of dominos. Dominos were the type of game that were used for people's whims. She personally enjoyed just stacking them in rows and rows, then, when finished, knocking them down. Little a care was spared for the actual rules of the game.

A shadow fell on her.

"Hey." Bright gleaming eyes, cerulean in color, peered down at her. It took her a moment to register that someone was trying to talk to her. "Anyone sitting here?"

Felicity shook her head.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Roy Harper," he said, holding out a hand.

She ignored it. "Why are you sitting with me?"

The boy was quite pretty, definitely much younger than her, couldn't be older than nineteen. She wondered about his story but didn't want to ask. That would be so generic, _oh what are you in here for? Cue bonding blah blah blah. _No, she would much rather observe him. But she was curious, oh so very curious.

Roy answered, "Because you're by yourself and I would hate for you to be lonely."

Felicity snorted.

"Also because, I'm lonely. Everyone else seems too loopy to hold a conversation and you seem so calm and normal even if you did—" he broke off then, suddenly unsure of himself. She knew what he was going to say but she ignored that too. She was flattered that this "Roy Harper" wanted to spend time with her even if she was a convicted murderer, but she did feel like she should warn him.

"I am far from normal Roy." She held out her hand. "Felicity Smoak."

He grinned, flashing a pair of very even, white teeth, and clasped his hand in her own. "Care for a game of domino's?

"I don't really know how to play, I kind of just lay 'em out and then make them fall."

"Oh that's what I do too, don't worry. I don't think anyone under the age of sixty-seven knows the real rules to the game. So Felicity, care to start?"

She smiled, an actual genuine smile. "Sure," she said blithely, and picked up a domino.

* * *

><p>"Diggle, I'm going to need you to keep an eye on Mr. Palmer for me." Oliver passed a folder over to his best friend, driver, and ex-military tail containing information on the esteemed CEO.<p>

"And why do I need to tail him?" Diggle asked with interest, "Does this have anything to do with the Smoak girl?"

Oliver grimaced. Diggle knew him too well. "Yes. It does. Mr. Palmer is hiding something, and I intend to find out what. Just follow him for a few days, see if he goes anywhere that garners suspicion on your part. There's more to Ms. Smoak's story than meets the eye, and it begins with him. Their stories didn't match up; I'd like to know who's being truthful."

Diggle just shook his head and huffed. "A murderer currently housed in an asylum or a beloved company owner, hmmm, I wonder who's telling the truth." He smiled, but seeing the stern expression on Oliver's face, his cheeriness was short-lived. "Alright. I'll follow him. Expect an update in a week." He got up, pushing his chair in, and left the cafe.

Oliver sighed. This case was taking more effort than expected.

Felicity Smoak fit into categories, sure. He could label her schizophrenic or perhaps say she had a multi-personality disorder or maybe she suffered from PTSD but all of it rang false in his ears. All of it left a bitter taste in his mouth, like acid in a drink.

Something was _wrong. _

A voice sounded annoyingly in his head, _or maybe you're blinded Oliver. Maybe you pity her._

He scoffed._ Pity._ Pity was for children, and the weak. He didn't pity her, he was intrigued by her. Her disdain for any type of help, her sometimes enigmatic way of speaking and acting, her sudden losses of control. Oliver Queen was definitely interested. Psychiatrically.

* * *

><p>"Have you tried hypnosis?" he asks conversationally, not at all like other shrinks with their impatient questions and short attention span. She remembered the last one, who had jumped to conclusions immediately after meeting her. <em>"Oh she's schizophrenic", <em>without even one decent conversation.

But Oliver isn't a shrink really, because he doles out the medication and holds the rest of her life in his hands, and she mustn't forget it. Then again, if he does clear her or state her mentally sound, she goes to a prison instead. What a win win for her. She wasn't sure which sounded more appealing.

Felicity had spent the afternoon with Roy and it had left her in a considerably better mood. He was kind, talkative, sarcastic in an annoying way. They had constructed numerous patterns of domino's, each one more elaborate than the next before returning to their rooms, where she had found Mr. Queen waiting.

He was sans suit, clothed in a t-shirt and jeans. It made her like him more. He wasn't as pretentious as his normal attire. It made him seem almost normal, making her in turn feel normal.

Perhaps it was the almost normal afternoon with Roy, or the way the jeans fit in all the right places, or maybe she was just _tired tired _of never letting anyone in, but Felicity Smoak decided to let Oliver Queen see a piece of her.

"Hypnosis?" she asked lightly, looking at him from where she lay upside down on her bed. Of course she already knew what it was, but she wasn't certain of her feelings on the subject yet. From this angle he looked as if he were sitting on the ceiling.

He cocked his head to the side, as if he wished to turn upside-down too. She noticed he liked to look directly into her eyes, peering at her. It gave her the distinct impression of being x-rayed.

"The process in which I put you into a slumber— a trance-like state—it helps with the retrieval of stowed memories. Since you say you've forgotten the night of the murder, maybe this would help." Felicity had told him earlier of her apparent amnesia causing a peeked interest in the psychiatrist.

"Oh, are you going to swing a locket in front of my face like in the movies?"

He grinned. "No. I'm just going to talk to you."

It most likely wouldn't work. Her memories were locked in tight. _But what if it does. _She chewed on that for a moment.

"Okay. Alright, hypnotize me."

He edged closer to her, perched on the edge of his seat. "Okay, close your eyes and just breathe for a little. Steady, deep breaths." She heard a click and then, the light visible through her eyelids suddenly disappeared, plunging her into darkness. He must've heard her little gasp of breath because he said, "It works better in the dark."

She nodded her understanding even though he couldn't see it.

"Now Ms. Smoak, continue breathing those slow breaths. Listen to my voice, and only my voice. Feel the rise and fall of your chest." He paused a few seconds. "Now, tense every muscle in your body and hold." Again, a pause. "Now, release. Relax every muscle in your body. You are on a beach. Feel the heat of the sun, the sand beneath your hands, the smell of the ocean. Let yourself sink into that sand, sink—"

He had a nice voice, calm and reassuring, she almost wanted to grab hold of that voice and run. Here in the dark, it wasn't Felicity Smoak mental patient and Oliver Queen psychiatrist. Here in the dark it was just his voice, and her. It wrapped around her, probing her senses until… until…

_She looked down at the hard hilt of the knife in her hands._

_"Come out come out wherever you are." It sent a shiver down her spine. She was hidden, flat under her bed. Dust motes were visible next to her. Footsteps echoed. tap tap tap. Someone was coming up the stairs. _

_ "__You can't hide from me forever, Felicity Smoak."_

"No!" She bolted up from her position on the bed. "This isn't working! I don't want to do this anymore." Felicity was breathing hard.

"Are you alright? Felicity, what did you see?" She felt warm hands on her shoulders. It was still dark in the room.

She took a moment before answering, scuttling back from the comforting hands as far away as she could. The cold feel of the wall behind her back comforted her, made her realize that she was awake and here, alive. She could still feel the imprints of his fingers on her shoulders, the warmth lingering. She cleared her throat. "I saw nothing. This is stupid. Turn on the light please."

Oliver did, illuminating them in a harsh yellow glow. He looked disheveled and confused, as if he he just ran a race and wasn't entirely sure of the outcome. She wondered at how she looked.

_Why does it matter what you look like?_

"Are you sure you're alright Ms. Smoak? Did you experience any of the affects of hypnosis?"

"None at all," she lied.

He probed her with his eyes again. She tried to hide the lie behind a tight-lipped smile, pairing it with a withering shrug.

He seemed to buy it, or let it go, because with he put down a few notes in his notepad and put it away.

Standing up, he said "I will see you again soon. Sleep well," and left abruptly.

Maybe he hadn't bought it at all.

* * *

><p>"I want video surveillance of that room tonight," Oliver said to Ma'am.<p>

"Why?" she drawled, biting down hard on her sugar donut.

The hypnosis had worked, he was sure of it. She had seen something, and perhaps, just maybe, Felicity Smoak would see something tonight too.

Ah, sleep, the sordid companion to the mind. What shrank from the daylight always embraced the night. Yes, he would need that video surveillance.

"Ms. Smoak may have a psychological breakthrough tonight and I'd like to see it tomorrow morning." It wasn't a complete and total lie for she was on the verge of retaining her memories, but how much could he ascertain from that video. Perhaps a few shouted words?

Words were enough just in case she decided not to share what she saw with him tomorrow. Felicity was a torrent, as temperamental as the sea. Today was a nice reprieve from her usual cold and unusual manner, Oliver had actually gotten her to speak today. So just in case tomorrow was another let's-not-speak-to-Oliver day, he would at least have _something. _

Ma'am grunted. "Alright Mr. Queen." She said his name like it had a nasty smell paired up with it. "Anything you want."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"_Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.__" _

_-Poppy Z. Brite_

She was under her bed, knife clutched tightly in her right hand. So aware of every single movement, moment, sound in her house—even the erratic beats of her heart sounded like drums in the tiny space she lay in.

_Where is he, where is he?!_

Blood trickled down her forehead from the blow she had sustained earlier. _Asshole. _He had pushed her and she had hit her head on the table. It had taken her a moment to get up, but not before she picked up the poker lying by the fireplace and smacked him on the side of the head. She ran to the kitchen, grabbing the nearest knife and running up the stairs.

Now she was here, waiting.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

_tap _

_ tap_

_ tap_

"Come out come out wherever you are," his sing song voice rose above the railing. It rasped it's way to where she lay, sending shivers down her spine. "You can't hide from me forever."

His foot fall came closer to her bedroom, she could hear him right outside her door. She placed a hand over her mouth, to stifle the sound of her breaths.

"Now blondie, I hope you're not hiding beneath your bed. That's so _obvious, _don't you think?" A bead of sweat trickled down her back. _Shit. _His voice was so very familiar, however, like something at the tip of her tongue. She had heard it before.

The door creaked open slowly, she could see his heavy black boots on the wood flooring. _I'm going to die. I'm going to die. _The realization hit her hard.

He stepped closer to her bed. She made a decision. If she was going to die, at least she would try to fight.

So she waited, and waited, waiting until he bent over to peer, peer under her bed, under the bed into the shadows where she nestled. She saw a flash of his eyepatch then—

She burst out the side, jumping on his bent form, knife flashing in the moonlight that streamed through the window shades. He yelled as she stabbed him right in the back. He bucked her off, howling in pain. Felicity hit the ground hard, dazed for a moment before scrambling back up to her feet.

Slade Wilson slowly rose to his feet as well, back arched in pain. He grimaced as he looked at her, a predator and prey poised on a precipice.

"I have to hand it to you," he rasped. "You put up a much better fight than your mother did."

The world went numb. _My mother, my mother, my mother, _her heart pounded. Felicity's breath rattled in her throat.

_My mother._

_ He killed my mother. _

Mrs. Smoak had died a year in a supposed mugging on the streets. She had been devastated, crying into Ray's arms when she had found out.

But now, now, it began to all make sense.

"You killed.. my mother?"

Slade bared his teeth and growled, "Oh yes baby Smoak. It wasn't much of a fight."

Felicity had forgotten about her knife, hand resting on her side. Slade edged closer, taunting her with his eye and his voice and manner. "I like my victims, a little more, feisty." He breathed that last word in her face, breath ruffling her hair. The fight had gone out of her. He looked her up and down, malice and lust warring in his eye.

_ His distraction made him leave the pathway to the doorway open. _

_ Your mom would want you to fight. Fight Felicity._

She sprinted to the door, turning to the left and stopping abruptly. Slade burst through the door after her and she stabbed him. Again. He fell to the ground. She stabbed him again, in the stomach. Next, in the thigh. Next, in his other eye. She could hear herself screaming, as if she were very far away but also very present in this moment. Tears blurred her vision. Blood splattered on her shirt, her arms, a paint on her tainted canvas. Slade Wilson was still.

She breathed heavily, the sobs already rising in her throat.

Suddenly, an inexplicable pain to the back of her head. Darkness engulfed her.

"Put her in cuffs." She groaned, head throbbing in the back. "Ma'am. Ma'am." Her eyes flutter open.

_What happened, where—where am I…_

A police officer stood over, eyes cautious as he took her in. Her head was cushioned on something, she turned around and almost screamed. A man lay beneath her, covered in blood and still. He was dead.

Felicity began to panic. _Where am I where am I who am I what happened what.. what.. _a knife glinted on the floor beside her. She reached out to touch it, only to rescind her hand. It was also covered in blood.

The police officer began to speak again. "Ma'am, I'm going to ask you again, what happened here this evening?"

She looked around her. She was in an unfamiliar apartment, walls a beige color. Felicity looked back down at the dead man, and a strange triumphant feeling arose within her, like a phoenix burning in flame. A giggle escaped her lips. Another. She couldn't stop giggling. The giggling turned into laughter, raucous, pealing laughter that echoed around her. The police officer, with his grizzled face looked alarm, taking a few steps back, his hand on the stick on his belt. She just laughed, tears streaming down her face.

She didn't remember what had happened, but between gasping breaths, a stitch forming in her side, she told him what she _did _know. "I killed him."

Laughter. "I killed him," she repeated with relish, blood smearing her face like a morbid mask.

Felicity Smoak woke up with a gasp. She was on the floor, sheets tangled around her legs, cold sweat dewing on her forehead. She looked around wildly, trying to ascertain her whereabouts. Suddenly, she remembered. _I'm at the asylum. I'm back at the institution. _

The dream. _The dream. No, the memory._

She remembered. Not all of it, but this was a crucial piece. She wasn't crazy, Slade had provoked her first. Slade Wilson had tried to kill her first. But _why? _And why had he killed her mother?

Her mother. Pain laced through her chest where she huddled on the floor. A beautiful woman she had been, incandescent and kind, never provoking or provoked—everyone loved her. How did she elicit that man's rage? What made him kill her?

Her mother had worked at the local casino as a poker dealer, Felicity had learnt her way around cards from her, the mathematical process of counting them, which led to Felicity's propensity to computers.

She loved and missed her mother. It was a hole in her heart that didn't go away, a stitch that wouldn't dissolve, and now.. now she needed to know the truth.

She banged on the Door, the infernal door, screaming for Ma'am. "Ma'am! MA'AM! MA'AAAM!"

Roy's voice sounded from down the hall. "Felicity, what's wrong?" The thin walls made her able to hear him. He must be in the super crazy aisle with her as well, interesting.

"MA'AM!"

The hulking woman thundered down the hall. "WHAT DO YOU WANT AT TWO IN THE MORNING YOU INFERNAL CHILD, I AM TRYING TO SLEEP—"

"Oliver," Felicity began breathlessly. "I need Oliver Queen."

* * *

><p>Sleep was for the weak, or that's at least what Oliver Queen told himself when working late into the night. His eyes squinted at his desk, the lamp on it sending weak yellow light around the office. Books and papers covered the room, stacks of novels and research texts haphazardly leaning on one another, disorganized files spilled on the floor. He wore nothing but a pair of sweatpants, as he wearily wrote his daily findings in the case file of Felicity Smoak.<p>

_"Felicity has shown progress. Less antagonistic and open, though I believe that may be because of removal of strait jacket. Tried hypnosis, process went well. Will know more come morning."_

He pushed his work note pad out of the way, replacing it with a well-worn leather bound journal. After particularly trying days, he found solace in the act of relaying his own thoughts on paper. He opened to where he had last left it, and wrote.

"_She was better today, almost happy. We discussed different topics and interestingly enough, I almost forgot that I am there to help her. She's bold, enigmatic; it's infuriarating. We tried hypnosis to interesting results. I Know that she remembered something, and I hope it'll help. The more I learn about her, the less I believe she's off her rocker. Yes, in the first couple of meetings she collapsed from hearing voices and visions, but I have a theory on her condition, and a terrible feeling about the circumstances of the murder. I'm not sure why it's so difficult for me to believe she could really murder someone, but sometimes, I find myself looking into Felicity's eyes and seeing an innocence there that makes me want to protect her. She'd probably kick my ass if I tried, but the feeling is there, nonetheless. I must rearrange my thoughts, focus on the task at hand. Anxiety eats at me, I wait for Diggle's verdict on Mr. Palmer. There is a lot more than meets the eye with him. Perhaps—"_

Oliver's phone trilled, making him pause his musings.

"Yes?" He listened. "I'll be right there."

* * *

><p>"She started screaming and wouldn't stop until I called you," Ma'am fumed, a cigarette perched between her two fingers. The smoke made Oliver want to cough loudly into his palm, but he thought that was too childish and rude. "Doctor, go see her, but you better shut her up or I may have to do it myself." She grinned maliciously.<p>

Anger flared within him. "How inhumane of you my dear madame. Surely you're joking, because that sort of cruelness reminds me of Nazis. Oh, and make sure the camera is off when I speak to her. I do want the tapes when I leave."

Ma'am turned a tomato red, and just whirled around and stomped into her office, slamming the door behind her.

Oliver strode down the hallway towards Felicity's cell. Doors lined both sides of the walls, a clear window in each. He could say inmates peering out at him in curiousity. A blond girl with two pigtails stared at him with delight to his right.

"Hey!" she trilled in a high and distinctly New Jersey sort of accent. "I used to be a psychiatrist too! We could, compare notes." Her giggling faded away as he walked further down the hall. A teenage boy with black hair and interestingly blue eyes looked at him with anger in another window. Finally, he reached Felicity's door.

He opened it quietly, closing it behind him when he entered. Felicity was sitting in a corner, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The video camera turned on earlier was black, no blinking red light visible.

Felicity looked like a caged animal. Her hands were claws on her knees, knuckles white with exertion. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing and everything at the same time. She trembled slightly, either in fear, or in anticipation, a feral curl to her lip suggesting the latter.

"Fe-li-ci-ty?" he asked cautiously.

She jerked her head up towards him, still jittery. "Oliver," she breathed.

It was the first time she had ever said his first name. He liked the way her lips formed the shape of it. _Stop it, you fool. _

He sat on the floor, a good five foot distance between them. He waited, in a zoo, trainers always let the animal make the first move when it's feeling caged. It was a sign of trust. The same could be used on humans, Oliver learned. So he let Felicity make the first move, letting her know inexplicably that the ball was in her court.

It took her about ten minutes. Her breathing slowed at about five, her trembling ceased at seven.

Ten minutes. She cleared her throat. "I—," she began, swallowing hard, "I remember. Some of it. I.. I remember the night, the night I killed…" he voice faltered.

"It's alright, take your time."

She took a deep breath, "I killed Slade Wilson. But he killed my mother. He told me. There was—wait, no—please just listen. I know you probably think I'm lying but I'm not, just listen please. I saw in the dream, I was in my home, under my bed, a knife in my hand. A man had entered my home and attacked me, I fought him off until he admitted to killing my mother. I.. snapped. And killed him, but he entered my home first! Then someone knocked me out, and when I woke up, I didn't remember anything! And I was in Mr. Wilson's apartment." She looked up at Oliver, a tear making a track down her cheek. "I _know _this sounds crazy, and I _know _you have no reason to believe me, but.. but this feels real! I remember what happened. I _remember." _He could see the exact moment she changed, the moment she began to doubt, because she folded into herself, eyes seeing nothing. "I remember, I remember I remember I remember I remember I remember. I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am _not _insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane. 1,439 cracks in the wall. One Door. 1,439 cracks in the wall. One Door. 1,439 cracks in the wall. One—"

He couldn't take it, this strange broken girl before him, breaking even more because of something she didn't have control over. Oliver had known her mother had died, but he couldn't even fathom why she was killed. What reason was there to kill Mrs. Smoak? What reason was there to kill _Felicity _even? That's what Slade Wilson had gone to do, kill Felicity. Meaning, he had an agenda. Oliver was going to be a detective if he kept this up any longer. He scooted towards her, still on the floor.

He placed his hand on hers. She stopped her rambling and sucked in a tiny breath. "Do you know why Slade wanted to kill you?"

Blue eyes met blue.

Hers were alight with a fire, a torrent of feeling ablaze within her. "No. But I intend to find out. Put me under again. Let's do hypnosis. It helped! Help me, Oliver." His name again.

"Help me," she implored.

"Okay. Okay Felicity. We will try it again tomorrow."

He stayed with her until dawn broke, rivulets of the sunrise lighting the corridor outside her room a pink color. Felicity had fallen asleep at about four am, but he had stayed up and pondered.

Oliver thought about the case, the feeling he had about it, that something was off. Yes, he would help this girl, because he wouldn't feel right if he didn't.

At six o'clock he rose, gathering Felicity up in his arms. Her bones were sharp from lack of nutrition, and he could feel her softly breathing against his chest. He placed her on the striped cot, and left, the warmth of her form lingering on him until he reached the brisk, cold air outside the asylum. It was like stepping out of a dream and into the sunlight. Oliver had quickly grabbed the dvd of footage from the camera in Felicity's room, through he had a feeling it wouldn't reveal anything strange.

He checked his phone. Two missed messages, one voicemail.

The first message was from Diggle.

_Listen to the voicemail. _

His eyebrows furrowed in intrigue. Last time he had talked to Diggle, the man didn't have anything to report on Ray Palmer.

He pressed play on the voicemail. Diggle's voice echoed in his ear.

_"Oliver, you were right about Mr. Palmer, there's something shady about that man. Every day at around five pm he leaves his office and travels to a barber shop, even though he doesn't need a haircut every. single. day. He comes with a briefcase, and leaves with a briefcase, but there's something wrong there Mr. Queen. Should I engage? I suggest you come with me to see yourself. Call me back."_

So, Mr. Palmer went to cut his hair everyday? Unlikely. Oliver would definitely be joining Diggle in this investigation.

When Oliver reached home, he placed Felicity's dvd in his laptop, and went to toast himself a pop tart and coffee.

Several hours of footage passed without incident. Felicity slept soundly, an arm thrown off the cot and the other braced behind her head.

He sipped his coffee, burning his tongue in the process. "Shit."

At 1am though, what he witnessed frightened him. Felicity sat up and began to mumble. He turned up the volume loud. She was whispering in her sleep, "I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you for what you did."

Felicity rose and travelled to the corner where he had found her, she promptly began to bang her head against the wall. It made him sick. _This poor woman. _

The recording revealed nothing else, but he was more doubtful now. Hypnosis isn't exactly a mainstream tactic for psychiatry, it's actually looked down upon ever since the end of Freud's reign. So, who would believe her when she _killed _a man.

_But, it seemed to be a set up. _He silenced his annoying Sherlocky-head voice.

Oliver recalled the other message on his cellphone suddenly. He looked at it, a text, from Mr. Ray Palmer.

_"Oliver Queen,_

_Would love to have dinner sometime. Text back and we can schedule one! -Ray Palmer."_

It seems he would be seeing a whole lot of Ray Palmer very soon.


	5. Chapter 5

"_We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.__" _

― _André Berthiaume_

He felt like a detective—a shoddy and inexperienced one at that. It was about 4:45 pm and Diggle and him sat across the street from a barber shop in Diggle's humid Pontiac. The radio played softly under the cacophony outside. People were starting to go home, some finished with work meandering by, chatting about this and that, happy and unassuming whilst two men waited for any sign of the unusual.

Oliver whispered, "So when does he—"

"Shh!" Diggle interrupted.

"But how about we—"

"SH!"

"We are in a car, I don't think Ray can hear us."

Diggle laughed. "Yeah I know man, but _I Will Survive_ is on the radio. I love me some Gloria Gaynor." Diggle noticed the tension emanating off Oliver. "You okay?"

Oliver clenched his fist in his lap. "Just anxious. Ray seems inexplicably tied to every thing's that's happened in Felicity's life in the past two to three years. He's suspicious, and we need to evaluate him."

"Man, you've been a psychiatrist for years. Why all of a sudden are you questioning a patient and the sickness that they have contracted?"

Oliver looked Diggle very seriously in the eye. "I don't think she's crazy, Dig. Other than some PTSD and some suppressed memories, she seems completely sane. Of course, I can't diagnose her as such because they'll send her to jail. It's better that she's in an institution rather than prison, trust me. There's more to her case than just a simple murder. Too many questions. I need to unlock the memories hidden in the deep recesses of her mind and find out _exactly _what Mr. Palmer's role is in all of this."

Diggle, being the truthful and blunt man that he is, cut right down to it. "Why are you helping her?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but then found that he didn't have one. "I—I don't know."

His friend looked as if he were going to say something, a bemused look on his face when, all of a sudden, his eyes widen. "Oliver. There he is."

Oliver looked up. Mr. Palmer was hurrying down the street, having just emerged from a sleek black Audi. He wore a suit, the jacket unbuttoned, a briefcase in one hand, his phone in the other. Ray entered the barber shop.

"Should we engage?" Diggle continued, hand on the doorknob.

Oliver gestured to stop. "No. Wait a few minutes, then go. You said he usually stays about twenty minutes?" Diggle nodded.

Five minutes passed.

Diggle exited the car with a curt "wait here, I will text you," and entered the shop.

Two minutes passed.

A text message.

_He__'__s not here._

Oliver got out of the car, and walked across the street to enter the barber shop.

It was an unassuming store, a family-owned shop with wood flooring and red walls. Identical chairs lined both sides of the room, mirrors in front of them. A long and intricate runner lay in the middle of the floor, the rug's design showing curved flowers and geometrically shaped birds in a beautiful manner. An elderly man sat in a chair near the back reading a newspaper. Diggle pretended to peruse the hair products near the front desk. This struck Oliver as hilarious since Diggle had little to no hair usually. The man in the back eyed the two men from over his newspaper. There was no sign of Ray Palmer.

"I'm sorry, sir? Do you happen to know where that man who entered earlier went?" Oliver had to ask, despite the warning look from Diggle.

The older man cleared his throat and replied with a balmy Russian accent, "No man earlier, not sure who you talking about."

"A man. With a briefcase. He came here about ten minutes before I did?"

The shop owner's eyes flickered imperceptibly to the rug before returning back to him. "No man." His voice grew a littler angrier now. "You two get haircuts?"

Diggle rubbed his head subconsciously.

Oliver coolly responded, "I don't think so."

The man's eyes narrowed. "No want services, you leave my shop now."

Diggle turned and left, Oliver hot on his trail. They got back to the car, settling in before speaking.

"Why'd you do that?" Diggle asked. "Subtlety isn't really your strong suit."

"He obviously tipped off Palmer beforehand, else he would've come out from wherever he was hiding. But, did you notice him looking at the rug on the floor? Or was that just me?"

"I noticed it too. But seriously, you shouldn't have said anything. Now Ray isn't going to come out."

They waited in the car for another half hour, hoping for another glimpse of Mr. Palmer. But, to no avail, there was no such luck.

Oliver replied to Mr. Palmer's earlier text from the morning.

_Sounds good, dinner tomorrow? And, do you like Italian?_

* * *

><p>Sometime she felt like a stranger in her own skin. This strange mask that covered her sinews, tissues, and organs felt uncomfortable, too tight, out of place. It made her want to claw at the facade, scratch it away like some cat in a jacket.<p>

Sometimes, she wished for a way out.

Sometimes, Felicity Smoak wished for death.

Of course, death was the easy reprieve, an excuse for her not to feel or remember or live with the torment of knowing _she had killed someone. She, was a murderer. _She'd never see her mother again, never feel the warmth of a sunny day on her face, never kiss anyone good night. It was a sorry life for a sorry person

That was all different now. A change, so to speak, was in the horizon. Oliver Queen had caused that. The slow and arduous process of hypnosis had revealed quite a few things.

One, that she had killed Slade in self-defense. Two, that Slade had indeed killed her mother. And three, someone had sent that man to take her out.

Gosh this institution was so cold at night. A full day had passed since she had fallen asleep on the floor, waking up the next morning to find herself in bed. _He must__'__ve put you there. _It warmed her cheeks to think of that for some reason. She lay underneath the thin blanket, hands placed between her thighs for warmth. It was nights like these that made her think of Ray Palmer, because the cold seemed to elevate the ceaseless feeling of loneliness within her, that emptiness in the pit of her stomach widened by the frost of the night.

She didn't want to think of him, but the memories came anyway.

Ray Palmer was an eloquent man, charming in every single fashion, her soulmate on paper. He was clever, tech savvy, with a talent of tongue and a pension for trouble. Working for him had been decent work, an IT girl was always handy at a technology based company. But when he had walked into her office for the first time, rambling about remote administration tools and hacking high security systems, it had seemed like love at first sight.

They had quickly gone on a date, then another, then another, each fortifying the thought that _this, this was it. _He was kind, and supportive, holding her when her mom died, and picking her up when she didn't want to move on. It was.. nice. Nights weren't lonely. Kisses were plentiful. Laughs were constant.

He always had an undertone of mystery though, perhaps this was necessary as a CEO, the ability to keep their lives and information under wraps. She never knew about his family, and he never discussed work. It didn't hinder them, but sometimes, it bothered her.

Everything was perfect, up until that day. She still couldn't remember _that night_, or the day prior to that, but she did recall Ray's visit to Aglion Asylum. The one time anyone had visited her.

It had been a week after she had been committed. She had been expecting him, waiting for him even. Her boyfriend, the man she loved, he would believe her if not anyone else. She was terrified in this new setting, terrified of the simple grey jumpsuit she was given, frightened by the manic eyes of the inmates. All she could think was _I couldn__'__t have done this, how could I have done this, why am I here? Ray will believe me. Just wait for Ray. _

And he came, well-dressed as usual in a black suit and purple polka-dotted tie. She was allowed visitors for an allocated amount of time, so he had come into her room.

He looked abruptly out of place in her small cell, the sheer mass of him almost alarming. He was so _other _in that moment, it made her ache to be like him. But no, she was here, on the other side of the inexplicably invisible barrier now between them. She belonged here and he didn't.

"Ray," she breathed in relief, running towards him with her arms outstretched. He accepted the hug, wrapping his arms tentatively around her and stepping back quickly. Ray avoided Felicity's eyes, looking anywhere but at her.

"Felicity…," he began cautiously.

"No!" She jumped in, interrupting him. "Let me explain." She had the sudden feeling that this visit was going to go badly, so she decided to take matters into her own hands before it happened. Felicity sat on her bed, gesturing for him to do so as well. Ray folded himself into the chair available, his arms crossed across his chest—another barrier enacted between them.

"I didn't kill Slade. I didn't. Really." He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Well," her voice faltered, "I actually don't remember that night, or the day before that. But you know me Ray." She couldn't hide the note of plea in her throat. "I wouldn't—do this. Kill someone." Her hands fluttered nervously over the material of her jumpsuit. He still hadn't looked at her.

"You believe me, right?"

He looked up then, his dark eyes meeting hers, inscrutable in the harsh light of the fixtures above. He sighed.

"I don't know. I just—_don__'__t know._ All the evidence points to it. You were—you were found in a pool of his own blood, the blade in your hands Felicity! How can anyone dispute that."

He didn't believe her, the one hope she had for a semblance of her past life, gone, in a flash. His lack of faith was disheartening.

"I can't do this anymore. This is already terrible press for Palmer Industries, and me being directly connected to you is causing drops in stocks." She looked up at him, his face was stone-cold, hard. Tears began to well up in her eyes. At this point in time, all he cared about was his company? Not the girl he supposedly loved?

_She had known this was going to happen. _

And the voice came, the one that haunted her nightmares for the past week, the raspy voice that curled the ends of her hair and sent shivers down her spine. _"__Did you really think he cared for you little girl?__" _

"Who's saying that?" Felicity asked the air.

Ray looked at her in alarm, "Felicity?"

_"__You are alone, and you will always be alone.__"_

"Stop. Stop. Stop talking to me!"

"Felicity, no one's talking to you." Ray stood up. Felicity was looking at every corner of the room, searching for the owner of the voice plaguing her. "Felicity! No one's there!" She stopped her search and turned towards him. Ray cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for all this, but, I have to go." And he turned around and strode towards the door.

"No!" She cried, running to grab the him by the suit jacket, whirling him around. A look of profound disgust morphed his usually kind face into an unknown mask.

"_He is repulsed by you, look at him.__"_

"Ray. Don't leave me here."

He shrugged her off, her hands left empty in the air. "I won't come again. Goodbye Felicity."

And he left her.

It was the memory of that encounter a year ago that haunted her now. Some nights just dredged up the darkest corners of her mind and let them play beneath her eyelids. She had to get up, do something, anything to help her forget.

A soft knocking on the door made her sit up, bed springs creaking in protest. It was the middle of the night, who would be at her door? The Door she knew oh so well. Felicity stood up, walking warily towards it. She couldn't see anything through the small glass window, the hallway dark. Ma'am would be sleeping; she rarely checked up on them at night after locking them into their sequestered cells.

"Who's there?" she hissed.

"It's me," a voice echoed back, then, clarifying, "Roy."

"Roy," she sighed in relief, "I thought someone was coming to kill me."

He laughed quietly, muffled through the steel. "I'm sure you can handle yourself." The tone in his voice suggested something, and she didn't really much like it.

"What can I help you with?" she asked curtly, a bit sharper then she had intended. "And how did you get out of your room?"

The lock clicked and The Door swung upon, Roy walked in. His grey jump suit looked rumpled from sleep and he jingled a bunch of keys, a wicked grin on his face. "Stole 'em from Ma'am today in the game room. She shouldn't show them off so much! Wouldn't want anyone swiping them." He winked. "I thought maybe you'd want a night out on the town, or well, outside in the quad for a bit. Can't really leave, with all these chain link fences everywhere, but, it'd be nice to get some air. You down?"

All irritation from earlier dissipated as Felicity confronted the fact that she could go outside, actually _outside. _She could feel the grass, the dirt, just how she _dreamed they__'__d be. _and now she was quoting Tangled, great.

_Child. _

She was way too excited. She nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>The night air was brisk, cool, as they slipped outside into the darkness. The stars stretched above them like paint splatters on a canvas of a painting. Felicity swam in the duplicity of it all, the secret sojourn in this out of bounds world. Sure, they were still locked in by chain-link fences and barbed wire, but this was a taste of freedom.. and a taste was more than enough after a year of confinement. They had walked to the middle of a rectangular field of grass. Roy was just standing, his eyes closed, breathing in the air deeply. She felt a sudden affection for this young boy, a boy who had risked a lot to just see the outside once more, and he had invited her of all people. Felicity took Roy's hand, pulling him to the ground. He opened his eyes in surprise and followed, laying next to her on the slightly damp grass.<p>

They lay there for quite some time, listening to the sounds of crickets chirping and the imperceptible sounds of cars in the distance. Aglion was a little aways from Starling City, about a fifteen minute drive, the surrounding area a plain of wild grass and sparse trees. To the north was the shining lights of Starling, the buildings the size of boxes from where they were.

"I set fire to my parent's home, by accident." Roy's voice pierced the silence, a soft whisper near Felicity's ear. "I've always been attracted to fire. To the rush of power it gives me when I hold a flickering flame in my hand, whether it be from a lighter or match. I'm careful. Usually I just like to stare, at the, the nuances of a candle's flame, or the heat emanating from a fireplace. I didn't mean—," Roy's voice caught. Felicity took his right hand in hers again, a reminder that she was _here _for him, that she could tell him, that it was _okay._

He squeezed her hand, taking a shuddering breath and continuing. "I let the match burn too long. It burnt my fingers and I dropped it on the carpet. It set the floor ablaze in seconds, and all I could do was watch. It was.. fascinating. I'd never seen something so beautiful. I didn't mean for it to burn the house down, I just wanted to watch fire smolder unchecked, wildly, freely. It was a mistake. No one was hurt, but, but.. I was committed. And now, here I am." He gestured at the sky above with his free hand. "Shrinks try to tell me everyday that my obsession is unwarranted. That it's all a part of my mind. When I start believing _that _I can go home." He laughed bitterly. "Home. My charred home. I have no home. I destroyed it because I couldn't control myself."

Felicity couldn't help the tears that filled her eyes. This poor young man beside her had made a mistake, one he would regret for the rest of his life, and here he was, labeled insane for something he couldn't control. A fierce feeling of hurt filled her. It was unfair. It was all unfair. Roy was far from a terrible person.

She knew this was where she was supposed to say something comforting, but Felicity was never good at comfort. She just squeezed his hand tighter, rubbing her thumb over his in what she hoped was a soothing fashion.

Perhaps it was her turn to share, to open up.

She sniffled. "You're not a bad person Roy, you just have a problem. It doesn't make you crazy. I'm a bad person." She turned on her side to face him. "I'm here because I—"

"I know."

"I—wait what? You know?"

"Everyone in the asylum knows. I knew when I first talked to you." Roy turned over to face her too, head perched on his palm.

Felicity turned her eyes shamefully towards the ground.

"Felicity. I knew and I didn't care."

She looked up at him.

Roy sighed. "You looked so scary and tough when you walked into the game room, but when you sat down, and looked at the other inmates, your eyes were so lonely, I couldn't help but come talk to you. And now, your my friend and I… I don't think your crazy."

"How would you know?"

"I just do."

Felicity knew she should share her newfound memories with him, this unlikely friend she had found in this terrible place, the memories that uncovered parts of that mysterious night, revealing that there was more to the scheme then meets the eye.

But, in that moment, she no longer wished to speak of the past, nor worry about the future. She just wanted to lay on the green-smelling grass, and commit the sounds and sights of the nighttime to memory.

She wanted to spend time with her friend.

* * *

><p>The restaurant glowed a dim yellow light, the sounds of clinking plates and softly lilting music filled the room. A delicious aroma wafted around, a mix of spices and the heady scent of cheese. He was sitting at a circular table for two, waiting for the elusive Mr. Palmer.<p>

_Where did he disappear to today? _Questions whirled around his mind like a merri-go-round. _What am I going to say to him? Why did he want to have dinner? Is Felicity okay? _He had promised her he would return today to perform more hypnosis, to no avail. He had slept in, the lost hours of slumber catching up to him at last.

"Mr. Queen! Good to see you again." Oliver stood and firmly shook hands with the tall and dark-haired Ray Palmer. He looked daunting, towering over the table in a navy suit. They both sat down simultaneously. A waiter magically appeared asking for drinks. Two waters were ordered. Both men wanted their wits about them tonight. They perused the menu, chatting amiably about the weather, and Palmer Industries, and about a crime show they had in common, each narrowly avoiding the topic they both seeked to discuss.

The waiter returned, glasses of water in tow. He took their orders and left. Silence fell over the table. Both men stared at each other, surveying the other like hawks or x-ray machines. Oliver felt like Ray was sizing him up, measuring him with his black-eyed gaze.

"So, Mr. Queen, shall we begin?" Oliver thought sporadically of Star Trek: Into Darkness, when Khan said that to Kirk. It was so random he almost burst into laughter.

He smoothed his face into a blank expression and said, "Oliver, please."

Ray nodded his assent. "Oliver. I suppose I will then." He straightened in his chair, then smiled slightly. "I would like to know why you're having me trailed and following me, _Oliver.__"_

Oliver countered quickly, "And I would like to know why you lied about visiting Felicity Smoak, _Ray.__"_

A loaded stillness settled on the men, the tension as thick as butter. The waiter came and placed their orders before them, but noticing the atmosphere, left quickly.

Ray speared a bow-tie pasta with aggressive ferocity in his mouth, chewing and swallowing speedily. "I visited her because I wanted to, She was a former employee, and I felt sorry for her."

Oliver began to cut his steak with his knife. "You're lying. You two were involved, romantically. Something you failed to mention when you barraged her service at your company. I do recall the words "stalker" being thrown around."

Palmer seemed to deflate a bit, "Okay. We dated for a little while. But it was nothing serious, and then she goes and.. and kills someone! I never knew she was capable of anything like that. She was so sweet and innocent. Just goes to show you don't really know people. I panicked. If the tabloids had gotten ahold of the news that someone I was involved with had murdered someone, they would've had a field day! Stocks would fall. Public opinion would become negative. It would have been a disaster. I had to stop the problem, cease any chatter. I went to visit her to explain that. She didn't take it well."

"Oh?"

Ray lowered his voice to a whisper. "She started talking to herself, yelling at someone who wasn't there. I thought she was going to attack me. Obviously, the chick is crazy. Completely uncontrollable and volatile. Everything she has said to you is probably a lie."

Oliver drank deeply from his water. Mr. Palmer had spoken with the ease of someone highly practiced, the fluidity and calculated pauses in his speech leaving a bad taste in his own mouth. Oliver believed that some of what he said was based in truth, but he had been speaking to Felicity for awhile now. Yes, she spoke to someone who wasn't there at times, but she had said nothing negatively about Ray Palmer, and usually discussed things with him calmly, alertly.

Mr. Palmer still withheld information.

"Now Mr. Queen, your turn."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

The amiable facade fell from the man's face, eyes darkening slightly in a menacing manner. "I was told otherwise. You've been following me, and I would like _to know why.__" _He said the last words with malice in his tone.

"Do you have a family history in anger management Mr. Palmer? Your clutching the table quite tightly. The color of your face is becoming very red. Do you wish to hit me?" And indeed, Ray's hand held onto the edge of the table with enough force to turn his knuckles white. He let go, flexing his fingers.

Palmer stood up, throwing his napkin down. "I believe this dinner is over. Your accusations and insinuations are insulting."

Oliver stood along with him, moving his face right to Ray's ear to say, "They're only insulting because they have a basis in truth. I know when someone's lying, I've been trained to know. I know your hiding something, and it has to do with that poor girl locked up in that asylum. I _will _find out the truth Mr. Palmer, if it's the last thing I do."

Palmer pulled away in surprise, his mouth slightly open. He shook his head a little, morphing back into the easy, self-assured nonchalance of someone well off and with nothing to worry about. "It seems to me, Oliver, that you care for the girl. That's not entirely professional, wouldn't you say? I wonder what your superiors would make of your inappropriate relationship."

Oliver felt the heat rise to his face.

Now it was Ray Palmer's turn to lean down and whisper in his ear. "Stop digging, or I will make you pay. That bitch deserved what she got."

He straightened and added, "You can get the check."

And walked out of the restaurant.


End file.
